It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound

Nevermind the obvious quirks in my physique—
the thick thighs,
short legs,
t-rex arms,
and that ample, curvaceous figure of mine
which I own and work every day.

[Listen,
I'm certain I could get into the glitter—
no doubt I would have a killer stage name—
I figure I’d get pretty used to the instant gratification—
and there's no doubt in my mind
that whatever I lack in grace and *** appeal,
I could make up for in
charm, wit,
and a cuteness that I'm still growing into.]

But see, I have a slight fear of wearing heels.
It's safer for everyone if I stick close to the ground.
And although swinging around a pole
seems like a good time,
my motion sickness would probably kick in
and I'd ralph hard
on at least one of my investors.

Aside from the faulty mechanics I'd bring to the profession,
I've got my own rationale.

I like knowing
that when my clothes come off,
it's for reasons larger than money.
I like knowing
that I've left a little to the imagination
and can unleash it at my leisure.
I like knowing
that my secret weapons of mass seduction
are, in fact, secrets.
I like knowing
that I still have something to blush about
when I think about how I spent my Saturday night.

Nah,
I could never be a stripper,
but hot ****,
do I enjoy perfecting the art
of smiling while naked.

Love doesnt end, because it doesn't begin
It is simply realized
Always there in the blood stream
Star dust
Love is a dream you don't quite remember
It was just there before you woke up
Trying to tell you something
Moon light
Love is your eyes wandering to things
Your heart wants you to notice
Dew on peddles of roses reflecting
Love

Today
silence
a garden
losing ground
cold and deep
my feet in
buried snow
sometimes pale ghosts
of winter whisper
in the footprints
that I follow
long, until the
Spring

Please don’t cry
I’m not really gone
When you look out the window
I’ll be standing on the lawn

Please don’t cry
I’ll see you again
Don’t be sad
Keep up your chin

Please don’t cry
I’m not really dead
When you cry yourself to sleep
I’ll be by your bed

Please don’t cry
Just because we had to part
As long as you remember me
I’ll live in your heart

Please don’t cry
I’m not gone forever
I’ll be a cool and gentle breeze
In hot summer weather

Please don’t cry
Don’t run and hide
When you need a shoulder to lean on
I’ll be by your side

Please don’t cry
When you’re sad and weak
I’ll be there
To kiss you on the cheek

Please don’t cry
This is just a goodbye
So please, oh please
Baby, do not cry

She gave me a drink like raspberries
crumbling into poison;
I swallowed it, I asked for more.
The ***** made me light,
made my limbs fluid,
my lips free,
my heart thunder.

I leaned close.
I breathed smoke into his mouth;
silver coils of nicotine between us,
And then nothing—just his hand
at the back of my neck
and the warmth of two mouths
moving against one another,
nothing between us.

I'm not me.
I struggle through life with my
siamese twin.
It's getting stronger than me.
Heavier.
It's lied alot in the past,
first white lies,
then little fibs,
then real lies
and now we're here
and I don't know who to believe.
I think this time it's telling the truth.
I think this time the boy's not crying wolf.
I think it's just me doing the crying.
Nobody seems to help,
nobody seems to understand
how big,
how tiring,
how cumbersome
my twin has become,
what I have to lug about
every day.
Nobody understands how much it's
distorted reality,
so I don't what's real
and what isn't.
But no.
This time I think it's being honest.
And isn't honestly the best policy?
Although,
they also say
ignorance is bliss.
I wish I had an on/off switch for my twin.
I wish I could turn off the power.
I can feel somebody hovering over mine.